The Assassin's Blow
by Star Pirate
Summary: Owen is an Assassin working for a company in Cardiff. He is blissfully unaware of the alien residing in his mind, until one day it makes itself known to him through a dream. Will Jack be able to convince him to join Torchwood before the alien claims it's next victim? Rated T cause I'm paranoid. No slash. AU. First Story ever please R&R. One shot may add chapters if people like.


The Assassin's Dream Blow

Owen Harper stares out the window of his large apartment in a penthouse of the complex. No he is not rich and famous, far from it actually. No one knows him; to the society he is nothing more than another face on the street. So why then does he live a luxurious life? Simple actually, the very people who think he is another face on the street pay for his apartment as well. Taxpayer money goes into making his life pleasurable. Why? Because Owen is actually a secret agent of an underground agency which specializes in tracking down criminals the law can't deal with. He is the guy they call to make the bad guys disappear. In other words he was their pet assassin. The agency made his life pleasurable; he stayed alive and killed who they told him to in order to enjoy it.

He sighs and looks over the sleeping city with its glowing lights; he listens to the faint purr of the moving cars and grins grimly. These people who were both his to protect but also could at any moment stare down the barrel of his gun fascinate him. They were so quick to get comfortable with their lives, yet none of them knew right above them stood their angel of death. His hand, stained with invisible red blood, reaches down and grasps a cold glass of red wine. He enjoys the sharp momentary chill of the condensation on his hand before just the wetness of it remains on his palm making the glass slip a bit before settling to rest on the backs of his knuckles that belong to right his middle and pointer finger.

His milk chocolate brown eyes return to the room he is in currently, his large queen bed laying unused for the past three days looks very welcoming to his eyes laden with dark semi-circles. The circles mark the hours not spent in the queen bed with its blue sheets and blankets pulled taunt over his stuffed luxury mattress with no room for wrinkles. His surrounding room that is painfully clean does not draw his weary eye. No that taunt downy comforter does. His voice think with sleep deprivation speaks out to the comforter like it is his lover waiting for his arms. "I am so tired I can't sleep. But I am also so happy I don't care." Why is he happy? Easy, he was out of the Main Communication's Center after a three day non-stop shift. Moving his lead heavy hand up to his heavier head that seems to refuse to stop tilting back; he tips the glass back draining the rest of the sharp bitter wine in one massive gulp.

"Nothing will ruin this night and no one will." His voice is not firm or certain, no instead it holds the tired resolution of a man who needs his sleep.

He looks at his communicator, a small flip phone that only has one number on it, as he briefly debates turning it off. He really didn't need his Commanding Officer ticked off at him for being unreachable even though he is off duty however so he left it on. With a resigned sigh he leaves it on his bedside table still turned on and ready for calls, then pulling back the cold thick comforters he climbs into bed and wraps his arms around his fluffiest pillow wishing it was Gwendolyn his late cat who died recently of old age. Finally his heavy eyes close of their own will and soon his mind is swept into the crazy world of exhaustion induced sleep.

Dreams are crazy, exhaustion induced dreams are downright evil. In his dream Owen is back sitting in front of the computer he just left. The familiar dark abyss of the blackened screen broken only by the sharp words that only hold statistics stares at him once more. The clicking of the keyboards mastered by the people he knows so well strikes his ears like the blows of an attacker. Once more he finds himself in the bonds of the repetitious style of desk work, no life threatening attacker or ever staining red blood, just the persistent tapping of keys and the low hum of the monitors. His dream head turns behind him to see nothing at all none of the familiar people he knows so well, none of the brother computers so similar to his but not as familiar, nothing just a suffocating blackness that sweeps over him like a tightening straight jacket. Instinct kicks in and he leaps to his feet, or rather tries to. He finds his moves, normally so sharp and graceful, are now slow and sluggish. Once he is on his feet he turns to look once more and the straight jacket returns to him like the hug of a lover you hate, persistent and unwelcome. With its grip comes the feeling of being trapped and vulnerable, he does not like it one bit. Trying to move again Owen goes for his weapon but realizes quite quickly he is paralyzed. _This is not good; this is very much not good. _This frantic thought flicks through his mind at a surprisingly quick speed considering his predicament.

Suddenly his ears pick up the distant but obviously muffled sounds of footsteps. Apprehension hits him like a spike to the chest, sharp and focused. The binding paralyzing darkness holds him still as the footsteps continue to approach. Then as if to prove his subconscious has it out for him the very shadows move aside revealing the tall hooded figure of Death. His blackened cloak is somehow darker than the suffocating darkness that is surrounding him. His feet peeking out from his cloak are nothing more than skeletal feet with no flesh; they are aged yellow and confound him as to how they remain together. A sharp knock brings his attention to the weapon the being is holding. As he expected the weapon is the classic scythe, however a chill shoots down his spine when he realizes that the scythe is made not of wood. The scythe is made of bleached femur bones and bond with what looks like coal black ropes. At the top is the white silver, undoubtedly sharper then a butcher's knife, elongated crescent blade. This weapon holds his eyes and fascination so he jumps when the being suddenly speaks.

"Owen Harper you are found to have served me well in life, you will now serve me as an undead servant. Prepare to leave this world behind." Owen's eyes watch in helpless fear as the scythe is pulled back by the deadly practiced arms of Death. The assassin who has killed countless hundreds now faces Death himself and finds he is desperately afraid. His eyes watch as oddly the blade glints its promise of a mercifully quick death, even though there is no source of light in the room since by now his computer had gone into sleep mode. Slowly ever so slowly the blade swings down at his heart, inch by inch making no noise as silent as a moth's wing, closer and closer to his black heart that is beating quicker than a hummingbird's wing that is pumping his life force. It is about to strike, any moment now his life would end, now it is about to touch him!

_BEEP BEEEP BEEEEEEEP _Owen yelps and leaps out of his bed and panting like he had just ran a mile he at looks at his communicator. In a relieved voice he groans. "Really at..." his eyes look blearily at the clock "Really at two in the morning!? This had better be good." He picks up the communicator slams the flip phone open ignoring the creak of protest it gives and growls. "What?" His tone is sharp, if not a little slurred, and it spells 'This had better be good or someone is going to die' as he speaks to the speaker.

"Owen we need you to get over here, there has been a death in the Main Communication's Center. You will want to know who." As the line clicks closed Owen's jaw hangs loose as he just stares at the communicator. His Commanding Officer's voice repeats itself over and over. _A death in the Main Communication's Center. _His mind flicks to his dream and he remembers Death's words once more. _Owen Harper you are found to have served me well in life, you will now serve me as an undead servant. Prepare to leave this world behind._ He trembles as he begins to walk to the coat hanger glad he fell asleep in his clothes. He can't help but wonder who was dead? And why did they think he should know. All he knows is suddenly he really wishes that blade had struck true, because he knows this day was going to be Hell on Earth. Death had struck his blow and now it is the assassin's turn to die. With that he headed to the main base completely unaware of another being's eyes on him. One who's eyes were human, one who'd change his life forever, one named Jack Harkness.


End file.
